


Amis Sentai RebelRanger

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2199474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A meeting of Les Amis is interrupted by a monster attack. After the group is rescued by four mysterious armored warriors, they go searching for answers. AU where the Amis are a Super Sentai and, depending on the individual, aliens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amis Sentai RebelRanger

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a loving homage to Super Sentai, starring Les Amis (and others). Yes, that is the show that was turned into Power Rangers in the US (though I confess to never seeing Power Rangers—my parents thought it was evil when I was a child). This is Estel Writes Sentai, so while it will have giant robot battles and magical transformations and (hopefully) silliness it will also have blood and trauma and possibly death. (My favorite sentai writer is Kobayashi—death is definitely a possibility.)
> 
> Acknowledgments: This story owes its existence to a great many people and other stories—to C-chan, for sharing both my fandoms and being as eager to geek on toku stuff as I am; to Treblemirens, for making an awesome post once upon a time with the Amis color-coded for a sentai and a basic suit design; to the artists of Les Mis fandom who decided Enjolras has literally glowing hair (I've seen it lots of places, including PilferingApples' work, and have no idea who came up with it first but it wasn't me); to Kaizoku Sentai Gokaiger, an amazing show filled with aliens that gives me an excuse to write another Space Opera Sentai.

_Episode 1: The Stars Descend_

"When you suggested we have a fun night out on the town, love, I didn't think this was quite what you had in mind." Musichetta's voice only wavers slightly, her hand resting lightly on Bossuet's shoulder as though this were any evening at the Musain and they weren't being driven back into a corner by... by...

"It wasn't quite what I had in mind either, I must admit, but there's always a ruffian out to ruin a good party, right?" Bossuet raises his left hand to rest it atop Musichetta's, his body attempting to shield her from the things advancing on them.

Grantaire allows his eyes to glance back toward the... _creatures_ that are currently herding everyone in the back room—Musichetta, Bossuet, Grantaire, Feuilly, Marius, Cosette, Combeferre, Bahorel, and Viviane, Bahorel's girl—into the corner furthest from the door and escape. Though, given the sounds coming from the rest of the Musain, Grantaire strongly suspects that escape wouldn't be easy even if they could reach the door.

The beasts are black, head to toe, though there is a shimmery, greasy hint of grey-white to their bone-thin faces. Fur covers their arms and legs, thick and shaggy, and their round black eyes are flat and cold, displaying no emotion. They began pouring into the room about sixty seconds ago, and it had only taken one display of teeth—flat like an herbivores, but so _many_ , and with thick jaw muscles showing clearly on the too-thin face—and one broken table for everyone to begin retreating.

"What _are_ they?" Combeferre's breathless question is far too curious for Grantaire's liking, and he shoots out an arm to keep the medical student from sidling any closer to the monsters. "An ape of some kind, they must be, but they look..."

"Horrific?" Viviane suggests, staring at the monsters over Bahorel's shoulder.

"Unfortunates." Bahorel nods in ageement with Viviane. "Also, they're ruining our evening. We're not going to stand for this, right?"

"If you want we can lie down for it." Grantaire draws in a breath and gags as a strange, undefinable but distinctly unpleasant scent fills his nose. All right, he will be breathing through his mouth until this is done, trying not to pay any attention to the taste building up on his tongue. "But given that one of those broke a table just by thunking a fist down on it, I'm not sure fighting them is a valid strategy."

"Better to die fighting than cowering." Bahorel cracks the knuckles of his right hand.

"Here." Viviane has somehow produced two small blades from the folds of her skirt, and she places one in Bahorel's palm before brandishing the other at the creatures. "First one to five wins?"

Before Grantaire can decide if he wants to risk his life restraining Bahorel in an attempt to save Bahorel's life, the situation changes yet again.

The two figures who walk through the door immediately arrest all attention. The creatures that had been menacing everyone pull back, heads bowed low, soft sounds that are frighteningly similar to a cat's purr erupting from their throats. Bahorel and Viviane share a look before making their respective blades disappear back into their clothes, clearly recognizing that information gathering, at this point, is the better part of valor.

One of the figures is human—or at least _looks_ human. She is a woman in her late twenties or early thirties, dressed in simple, luxurious clothes that would be very appropriate if she were male. Her hair is a shiny black that doesn't quite seem to move appropriately, and it takes Grantaire a moment to wrench his eyes away from the waving tendrils.

Her companion is decidedly not human. It is large, a good head taller than the black-furred creatures. Its body is some kind of strange amalgamation of human, cat and... steam engine? That's the only thing that Grantaire can think of as he squints at shiny black metal bands running vertically across the creature's chest. Is that _natural_? Could something actually _grow_ metal? Or have they been somehow embedded in the creature, along with the razor-sharp, thirty-centimeter-long claws emerging from the back of its hands?

The aura of intimidation that the creature has is somewhat lessened by the fact that it has a small black box clutched in both hands that it is peering at, its face centimeters away from a glowing white bit. Sounds that sound suspiciously like frustrated muttering if the mutterer were a building attempting to collapse mingle with whistles just on the edge of his hearing. Grantaire finds himself opening his mouth wide and rubbing at his ear when a particularly egregious whistle pierces through his eardrums.

Then, with a surreptitious glance down at the human-looking, bored-looking person standing at his side, the creature pounds one fist against the black box.

And the muttering vanishes, replaced by perfectly intelligible if rather formal French. "—damn things never work like they're—ah!"

If monsters can skip, this one does, a parody of a smile pulling at black lips to reveal steel-sharp teeth. Then it bows low to the individual next to it. "Your majesty, the beasts should be able to comprehend you now."

The maybe-woman looks up from studying her nails—or perhaps her hand, the tendons on the back that stretch taut under the skin with each small movement of a finger—and pierces them with pitch-black eyes. There is no iris or pupil, only a shiny smooth surface that seems to want to pull them under. "You. Rabble. Do you know where the weapon is?"

Bahorel and Viviane each shift, somewhat guiltily, but no one answers.

The most-inhuman monster steps forward with a snarl. "Answer, maggots!"

"Then for God's sake ask us a comprehensible question!" Marius' voice breaks, the demand a mixture of anger and terror. He stands with Cosette behind him, his hands thrown back to provide a sheltered cove for her.

Bossuet pushes forward before the creature can lunge at Marius, his hands held up in a placating gesture. "What my friend means is that we can't answer a question that we don't understand. When you say weapon, what, exactly, are you referring to? There are many weapons in Paris. Most are controlled by the National Guard and the police. Perhaps it would be more prudent to ask them about whatever weapon in particular you're looking for?"

For long, tense seconds the woman stares at Bossuet, her expression cold and unreadable, her black eyes unblinking. Then she heaves a very human sigh and waves a hand. "Useless, but perhaps not quite as stupid as they look. Process them. They might be able to provide a decent soldier or two."

The inhuman monster inclines the top half of its body, left hand pressed to where its heart should be if its insides are remotely normal. "As you wish, majesty. Do you wish to—"

"Have my personal guard meet me outside." The woman's fingers drum against her leg in a brief staccato rhythm. Then she points at Bossuet. "You. Less foolish one. Who is the pink creature in command of this area?"

"Uh..." For a moment Grantaire is afraid that Bossuet is going to just return the woman's stare. Then he clamps his mouth shut and gives a tight smile. "That would be King Louis-Philippe. You can't miss his house—biggest one in the city. I'm sure he will be absolutely _delighted_ to make your acquaintance."

"Hmm." The woman narrows her eyes before making a motion very like a small shrug and turning away. "Very well. I leave these to you."

The vocal monster bows again to the woman's retreating back as she exits the room and, presumably, the Musain. Even the black-furred creatures crouch down, heads lowered, in deference or fear Grantaire can't tell.

While the creature is busy bowing Bahorel and Viviane pass out weapons. Grantaire has no idea where the two of them were keeping them—correction, where _Viviane_ was keeping them, since she had given Bahorel his earlier—but he gratefully takes the blade that is pressed into his hand while making a mental note not to hug the woman unexpectedly. The way that the monster's leader had said 'processing' left him with very little desire to experience it firsthand, and given the choice between being beaten to death by black monstrosities or dying in some strange and unknown way...

Well, he'd really prefer not to die, but the universe seems rather stacked against that option at the moment.

"Cosette, _no_." Marius' hiss is meant to be low, Grantaire is sure, but it still carries painfully well.

The cat-machine-monster whirls around as everyone's eyes flash up to where Marius is holding onto Cosette's wrist. Cosette's fingers are wrapped firmly around a small knife, though the blade trembles minutely to betray her fear. A low hiss boils out of the cat's mouth. "Maggots! What are you planning?"

"To not die helpless." Cosette meets the creature's gaze evenly, her face white and her voice trembling but her beautiful eyes flint-hard. "I have been helpless before evil before; I will not allow it to happen again."

"You will serve or you will die." The creature takes a step toward them, pausing when Marius interposes himself between Cosette and the monster. "Choose death, then. It will be the more exciting option."

"No more human blood will be shed here today."

The voice that interrupts the monster's stalk is the most beautiful thing that Grantaire has ever heard. The tone hovers somewhere between a tenor and a baritone, though it seems to have a modulated, echoing quality to it more akin to a choir than to one man speaking.

The man it belongs to lives up to the voice. He is whip-thin, dressed in black pants, a black waistcoat, and a blood-red overcoat that flows around him with perfect dramatic timing. His blue eyes burn like the hottest flame, and his blond hair is so fair and fine that it seems to glow.

No.

No, it doesn't _seem_ to glow, it _is_ glowing.

"Enjolras." If the blond man's voice is a chorus of fiery certainty, this man's voice is warm invitation, a gentle lilt that welcomes discussion and laughter. "You're straining your disguise again."

"Always the hair, no matter what I do. It might just be impossible, unless we somehow turn down your emotions, and _that_ would certainly be a shame." The third man, smaller and more fidgety than the other two, sounds as well as looks human, but given the company he's keeping Grantaire wouldn't place bets on it. "I suppose disguise isn't really needed now, though. These people know now that they aren't alone."

"One of the Lykt." The cat-creature hisses out a breath, crouching down, head tilting side to side as it clearly sights more exciting prey. "Your kind are supposed to be dead."

"Kill as many of us as you can." The blond man stands straight and tall, his mouth set firmly, the light shining from him only increasing in intensity. "So long as there is light in the universe, you'll never be able to kill us all."

"We'll see about that." With one final snarl, the cat charges.

The blond anticipates the motion, though, and is already moving before the cat-monster's feet clear the ground. His left hand pulls something that Grantaire can't see clearly from his flowing coat; his right hand briefly flashes a key with silver and red designs, which he slams into the object in his left hand.

Spinning away from the cat-creature's attack, the man turns the key ninety degrees. "Henshin!"

And suddenly instead of a man in a coat there is a man in a blood-red... something. Grantaire doesn't know what the shiny fabric coating the man head to foot is, or what material the helm is—it _must_ be a helm, though the black part over the eyes can't be tinted glass, no one would be foolish enough to put glass by their _eyes_ in a fight.

It is armor of some kind, though, because it is able to repulse the cat-creature's metal claws in a shower of sparks.

Apparently the creature's yowl of anger as it attacks is the signal the black-furred monsters have been waiting for, because they surge into action. Three quarters of them charge at the man in red armor and his companions—one in yellow armor, one in green, and one in silver, and Grantaire has no idea where the last one came from—while the rest charge at the humans still sitting rather stunned in the corner.

Everything descends into chaos after that.

Apparently taking the monster's charge as a challenge, Bahorel gives a battle cry of his own and leaps into the fray, Viviane right behind him. Bahorel tackles one of the black-furred creatures around the torso; Viviane sinks her knife into its belly a moment later.

Grantaire loses track of the exact order of the fight after that. There are simply too many bodies moving too frantically in too small a space. The red, yellow, and green-clad warriors engage the cat-beast; the silver warrior devotes his attention to keeping the black-furred monstrosities off them while they fight. The Amis split into groups of three and four, finding that they can take down the black-furred monsters with teamwork and great care. Though the creatures are strong and vicious, they aren't very intelligent, and they don't work well together.

Snippets of sound and images pierce through the battle-haze. He sees Bossuet knocked across the room into a wall, but before Grantaire can run to him he has to dodge razor-sharp claws, and by the time Feuilly has tackled and Musichetta has stabbed the beast that almost impaled Grantaire the green warrior is at Bossuet's side, helping him to his feet.

He sees Marius' shoulder torn open by a bite from one of the beasts, watches as Cosette, usually soft-spoken and demure, leaps on the beast and stabs it repeatedly in the face until it lets go.

He sees Combeferre staring down at green-coated hands, yelling something about blood not coming in that color.

He sees a beast coming at his head, all fangs and claws, and knows that he is going to die.

The silver warrior steps in between him and the beast, sword lashing out in one smooth motion, and the monster collapses into a fetid heap at Grantaire's feet.

"— _rest easy, lost soul, sleep well, and be born again, unbroken body and heart—_ " The silver man pauses, and it is only then that Grantaire realizes the haunting melody overarching the battle has come from his mouth. "Are you hurt?"

Grantaire shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak. His head pounds dully, his hands are shaking with adrenaline, and he has just been saved from monsters by a glowing man and his strange—

An explosion rocks the back room of the Musain, sending everyone staggering back. It makes Grantaire feel slightly better to see the silver warrior take a faltering half-step forward, thrusting his sword into the ground at his feet.

"Ah, damn it all." The voice comes from the yellow soldier—though he doesn't stay the yellow soldier, his armor dissolving into sparks as he twists something off his chest. He tosses the object—a little yellow ball with one end flattened, rather like a flower about to bloom—catches it, and tucks it into his coat. "I _hate_ it when they go and explode like that."

"Every one we fight explodes like that." The armor dissolves around the man with the glowing hair, as well, and he adjusts his red overcoat. "It's what they're programmed to do if they can't find heavy machinery to merge with, and given this planet's development that isn't likely to be an issue."

"Small blessings, at least." The man in the sunny yellow waistcoat brushes dust from his shoulders, though more settles there immediately, and then turns to the stunned and somewhat battered Amis. "Hello. My name's Courfeyrac—well, actually, my name is—"

Grantaire presses his hands to both ears and squints his eyes as a sound that is piercing but strangely beautiful assaults his ears.

"—but that's both impossible for your kind to say and painful for you to hear, so we'll go with Courfeyrac." He grins, hands clasped together in front of him, and glances around the room. "I'm sure you have questions, and we'll be delighted to give you answers. Is there anyone here who's a leader?"

"Or would you prefer not to ask questions?" The green warrior steps from his armor, too, surveying them with a look of mingled pity and apprehension. "I'm certain this has been a difficult situation for you, and if you'd prefer we leave—"

"You are _not_ leaving until you explain things." Combeferre clears his throat, hands—coated in green, gelatinous blood still—held awkwardly in front of him. "If you please. I don't think any of us can just cover our eyes and pretend this didn't happen."

"No." The blond man with the glowing hair—now just a faint radiance, only noticeable because of the way the dust glints around him—answers slowly. "It would be impossible for you to miss what will come. The Hunger has taken an interest in your world—they will not stop until they strip it of every useful object and person. But now may not be the best time to discuss all we'll need to discuss."

"Indeed." The silver man finally drops his armor, revealing a beautiful young man. "There are other squads roaming the city that we need to deal with, and the humans have dead to tend to. Assuming you have rites for the dead?"

"Yes. We do. We'll see to it." It's Bossuet who answers, rubbing his shoulder where he struck the wall. "In the main room?"

The silver man inclines his head.

"If they're landing more squads, this isn't reconnaissance. This is the leading edge of a full-scale invasion." The smile has slipped from the yellow man's mouth as he turns to his compatriots. "We've already spread our forces too thin. We won't be able to get reinforcements for weeks—possibly months."

The glowing man draws a slow, deep breath. "We may not need them. We shall see. For now... we've enemies on the ground to deal with. Any humans who are interested in a full explanation of what is happening and how you can possibly help, meet us at moonrise at the tree just visible from the road by the river where the city is entered. Understood?"

Combeferre inclines his head in what might be a nod.

The man in red returns the curt nod, spins on his heel, and disappears back through the door.

His companions follow him, the one who wore silver singing again.

Grantaire's knees go out from under him, and he allows himself to settle down on the sooty, blood-spattered floor. "Were we just attacked by monsters and saved by a man with glowing hair who doesn't consider himself human, who is also perhaps the most beautiful person I have ever seen in my life?"

"That would be a fair summary." Bossuet laughs, the sound devolving into a coughing fit as he leans on Musichetta. "Ah, the twists and turns that life can take."

"This wasn't quite what you promised me a night on the town would be like, Marius." There are tear tracks down Cosette's pale cheeks, tears still trickling down.

"It's not usually how it is." Marius has a handkerchief pressed to his shoulder. "And I'm so sorry, Cosette, if I had known—"

"Sit down, you silly thing, before you fall down." Viviane presses on Marius' unwounded shoulder, driving him to the ground; Cosette settles down next to him. "You didn't know—who could predict something like _this_? And the two of you did a fine job. You especially, young mistress; it takes courage to face an enemy."

"Sometimes..." Cosette sniffles, the tears slowing on her face. "Sometimes it just takes an inability to escape. Or... or something worth protecting."

"True enough, in both cases." Viviane peels the handkerchief away from Marius' shoulder. "Combeferre, once we find you water to clean up, you'll want to look at this. I think it needs stitches. And before you start sulking back there, Bahorel, I will say that this is more excitement than you promised me, and aside from the injuries I've got to say I enjoyed every minute of it."

"Good." Bahorel looks up from poking at his monster. "Because I've got a strong suspicion we're going to be seeing a lot more of this in the near future."

XXX

"Why are we doing this again?" Grantaire asks the question to the general group, shivering slightly as he hunkers down in his coat. The night isn't terribly cold, but they're all slightly damp from helping to fight fires for the last several hours, and the wind is chill and cutting. The shivers have nothing to do with the darkness, or the absolute certainty he has that they've stepped well beyond the bounds of their world by coming out onto this black, deserted road in the dead of night.

"We're doing this because it's going to be fun." Bahorel's voice is jovial, not a hint of exhaustion in it. Viviane gives a soft giggle as he grabs her and spins her around, setting her down on her feet at his side.

"Because the creatures who left those bodies—those utterly amazing, _dissolving_ bodies—are something that we need to understand." Combeferre strides at the front of the group. " _All_ of this is something we need to understand."

"Plus they helped us." Feuilly walks at Combeferre's side, though he turns to give Grantaire a look—Grantaire thinks it's a smile, but the dark and his pounding head make it difficult to decide. "They saved our lives back there."

"We need to at least see what they're offering." Musichetta walks with her hand tight in Bossuet's.

"To see if we can repay them—and if they've got any suggestions on how to keep the rest of the city from burning." Cosette walks snugged in at Marius' right side, as much of her touching him as is physically possible. The two of them somehow make it chaste, though, a gesture of support rather than romantic intimacy.

"Plus you're all crazy." Marius' face is drawn, his arm tight around Cosette's shoulders. He had been the other one who suggested it might be wiser for them not to follow the glowing strangers out of the city, a fact which made Grantaire immediately acquiesce to going. "If they decide to kill us—"

"Bit of a waste of time, killing us now after they went to all the trouble of saving us." Bossuet shakes his head. "No, if we were going to die tonight it would have been earlier."

"Don't say that, love." Musichetta places a gentle kiss to Bossuet's forehead, somehow making the move more sensuous than all of Marius and Cosette's cuddling. "The universe doesn't appreciate people making assumptions like that."

"True." Bossuet places his hand over his heart and lifts his eyes to the sky. "I apologize to any narrative gods I may have offended with my statement, and humbly withdraw it. We may die at any time, in any way, as might all people. I just think it's a bit less likely now than it was a few hours ago."

Bossuet dances to the side as Musichetta takes a swipe at his head.

"You know, Marius, I think I'll have to agree with you." Grantaire gives a heavy sigh. He doesn't often agree with the younger man—partly because Marius frequently has very strange ideas about life and especially romance, mainly because it's a great deal of fun to string the man along for as long as he can. "We are all absolutely insane. This situation isn't the fault of our insanity, though, this is the fault of the _universe's_ insanity. Plotting the overthrow of the legal and social systems that benefit us was quite enough for our little group, but that wouldn't provide enough drama for the watching gods. Oh no. Instead creatures from the depths of hell—a very strange hell, run by a very strange god who delights in twisting perfectly innocent forms into monstrosities—must attack us. We must be saved by glowing angels who are not actually angels but rather something called a Lykt, and isn't that a strange name for an angel to have—"

"It's Polish. It means _light_." Feuilly's chin drops down slightly as everyone turns to stare at him. "I'm pretty sure it is, anyway. That's what one of my old roommates used to say, if I'm remembering it correctly."

"Why..." Combeferre presses a finger to the bridge of his nose. "Well, yes, I suppose _why_ is the question of the day. And hopefully we'll have answers soon, since it seems that we are in the position that our new acquaintance suggested..."

"You are indeed." The voice comes from behind them, and everyone jumps, earning a laugh from the yellow-jacketed figure who saunters toward them. The man gives a jaunty bow before scanning his eyes over the group. His eyebrows arch just slightly, a pleased smile teasing across his lips. "All of you. I am well and truly impressed. Now, as I said before, my name, for the duration of my stay on this planet, is Courfeyrac. It is my pleasure to be a guide for all of you on this journey, though the news that I have is certainly troubling for your world. Do you have a leader?"

Everyone's eyes jump to the front of the column again, where Feuilly and Combeferre stand. Feuilly edges slightly to the side and gestures at Combeferre.

"Well then." The dry humor in Combeferre's voice as he studies the group with a raised eyebrow brings a chuckle to Grantaire's mouth, though he swallows it down. "I suppose that would be me."

"Splendid." Courfeyrac's grin is wide and radiant, his voice a pleasant tenor. The otherworldly overlays that had been present before are lacking, and Grantaire frowns at the stranger, not sure he likes knowing how well the man can mimic humanity. "Would you care to give introductions now, or once we're in the ship? Ah, silly me—humans have very limited night vision capacity, yes? In the ship, then."

Grantaire turns dubiously toward the water, wondering where they have stashed a vessel large enough to hold all of them and small enough to maneuver while avoiding detection.

"Not that kind of ship." Courfeyrac's grin widens, and he claps his hands together. "Oh, I absolutely _love_ this part."

XXX

"This shouldn't be possible." Combeferre's voice changes from quiet and tinny when he's outside the ship to an excited rumble rather reminiscent of the sound of approaching thunder as he tumbles back in. "That is a _tree_ outside. A rather impressive specimen of _Corylus avellana_ , similar to a dozen others. Yet walk _into_ the tree and you are... _here_."

Grantaire nods, glancing around once more as Combeferre opens his arms in a broad gesture. The place that they've come to is very well-lit, some kind of metallic cave with glowing settings in the roof and an explosion of fabric attempting to cover all the metal that isn't occupied by levers, buttons, flat screens showing numbers, twirly-spinny things, and blinking lights of various sizes. He's certain there's some kind of order to the madness—Courfeyrac had immediately gone to three different areas, after all, staring at numbers and nodding as though they meant something and pushing a button here and throwing a lever there—but to him it's a confusing morass of lights and colors.

"Yes." Courfeyrac's good cheer doesn't seem to have faded.

"But I can walk around the tree. I can circle its circumference." Combeferre sketches a circle in the air with both hands. "And _this_ does not fit into that circle."

"No." Courfeyrac agrees quite easily. "It doesn't."

"You will explain this to me." The words are caught somewhere between being a plea, a demand, and an ultimatum.

"Of course. Ah—I wouldn't touch that." Courfeyrac lurches up from his comfortable sprawl against a red pad and gestures frantically at Bahorel. "We don't have enough fuel to make any more jumps at this point. Plus jumping on-planet would probably destroy your country."

"Good reason not to do it." Bahorel steps away from the console, putting his hands behind his back. Viviane grabs them a moment later, pulling them up into some kind of hold and settling her chin on Bahorel's shoulder to study Courfeyrac.

"I think discussion of the physics of the ship can wait until you understand a bit more about who we are and why we're here, though." Courfeyrac's smile doesn't go away entirely, but it does fade into a more serious expression. "If the lot of you are quite satisfied with the doorway and the bridge, I'll take you to our conference room and try to give a brief explanation.

"Lead on." Marius casts a withering glance at Bahorel and Viviane. "Before someone accidentally destroys the world."

"Oh, I wouldn't let that happen." Courfeyrac smiles as he claps Marius on the shoulder. "That would be a rather terrible failure, accidentally wiping out the people we're trying to save."

Marius looks at the hand on his shoulder and then at Courfeyrac, his face pale, clearly wondering how to get the strange man to stop touching him.

As if sensing Marius' fear, Courfeyrac pulls his hands back, sliding them into his jacket pockets. "Because that _is_ what we want to do, you know. Learn about your people and help you fight off this invasion. Come—the conference room has vid capabilities, it'll help explain things much more easily than I can. The others will meet us there."

The conference room is a three-minute walk through snaking corridors on the definitely-not-tree-sized ship, and Grantaire stops trying to process what he is seeing after thirty seconds. Instead he just lets the images assault his eyes, a mixture of colors and shapes and textures that he has never seen before. The air is cool but not cold, a very comfortable temperature. There is a breeze, despite the fact that they are clearly in a structure and no windows are visible; after scanning his eyes over the ceiling and temporarily blinding himself on one of the glowing ceiling tiles, Grantaire manages to spot a series of small tubes that likely transport air.

The air smells and tastes... odd. Not an unpleasant sensation, especially when compared to some of the scents in the city, but definitely strange, a hint of something flowery or fruity combined with a metallic odor.

Before Grantaire can make more sense of the corridors they're being led down, they come to a door that magically merges with the wall in order to allow them entrance—retracts into the wall, he realizes as he walks through the entrance, and he hops forward a bit faster, just in case the two-inch sheet of metal decides to un-retract itself sometime in the near future.

Two of the others are already present in the room that they enter. The one who had worn the green armor and the tall, willowy one who had worn silver are busy arranging a series of cushions on the floor.

"—they need to be spaced evenly, to enhance the feeling of conversation and equality rather than the Earthlings simply feeling like they're being lectured to! It's very important for a young species like this." The green one—though outside his armor he is actually a rather lovely shade of brown, a very light, soft brown—pointedly moves two cushions apart.

"But those colors go together, as do these! To separate them and make them converse on equal terms with _those—_ plus there are likely to be affections within the group—" The silver one scrambles to his feet, a closed-mouth but very sincere smile breaking across his face as he watches their group file into the room. His waist-length hair is drawn back in a pony tail, and pale blue ribbons are wound through it. "Welcome, allies! Please seat yourselves as you wish, and feel free to rearrange the accommodations so that you're comfortable."

After a few muttered conversations and a great deal of eye contact, the group divests themselves of their shoes, leaving them in a pile by the door, and settle down on the cushions. Courfeyrac and his two friends, who introduce themselves as Joly and Jehan, intersperse themselves throughout. Grantaire manages to surreptitiously avoid sitting directly by any of the strangers, though he does find himself with an empty cushion on his right side, between himself and a still-rather-pale Marius.

Barely a minute has passed from the time they settle down until the door opens again, admitting the last of the strangers. The blond—not currently glowing—studies the circle, identifies the single empty cushion by Grantaire, and moves with utmost grace and economy of motion to settle down onto it, his legs folded under him as though he sat like this on a regular basis.

Perhaps he does.

Grantaire tries for a few seconds not to stare at the man, and then gives up, allowing his curiosity full reign. The man is absolutely gorgeous, his hair cascading in a mane down to his shoulders, his bright blue eyes scanning the group, his red mouth set in an expression of fierce concentration. When his gaze comes to rest on Grantaire his expression doesn't change, though his eyes do rise, pausing as they meet Grantaire's in an equally frank stare.

Grantaire swallows, suspecting that he should say something. A quick glance at Marius around the blond man shows that Marius is leaning as far away from the stranger as he can, and really, expecting _Marius_ to assist him in a social situation means he has fallen too far.

Grantaire forces his mouth to open, dredging his sluggish, tired, slightly hung-over mind for something that will be a pleasant-to-neutral statement. Complimenting a man's house—or in this case ship—is always a good first step, right? "Hello. I'm Grantaire. Thanks for inviting us—" Thanks for saving their lives, though Grantaire still isn't convinced that the trouble they were saved from doesn't _also_ stem from these strangers. "—and, I must say, you have a lovely body."

Marius flushes bright red, his mouth dropping open for a second, and Grantaire runs through the words that escaped his mouth.

Oh, hell. That's what he gets for trying to do small talk in this state. "Ship. You have a very lovely ship."

"Thank you." If the blond is taken aback by Grantaire's original comment, it doesn't show. "Joly, Courfeyrac, and Jehan seemed quite pleased after they designed it. I am called Enjolras, at the moment. I am pleased to see how many of your group took us up on our offer. It's rare for that many to respond to our initial call. Usually only three or four are able to overcome their natural hesitancy this quickly."

"Yes, well, strength in numbers." Grantaire wishes he had a drink—not just because it would give him an excuse for any more slips of the tongue, but because it would give him something to do with his hands. Perhaps he should have brought a sketch-pad, to record a bit of the wonder of the mad space that he's found himself in. "Where one of the Amis goes, we all go, at least if it's something related to battle."

"Your people are already used to battle?" Enjolras' expression seems to brighten, the faintest smile touching his mouth. "Though I regret whatever circumstances have made that so for you, that will prove most useful if some or all of you wish to accept our offer."

"Well, I mean, we're not a military group or anything, but we've had to defend their beliefs with force of arms, and we'll likely have to do it again in the future." Grantaire shrugs. "You know the fighting in 1830? The Amis were a proud part of that, though the ending left everyone a bit dismal for several weeks."

"Eighteen thirty..." Enjolras frowns, eyes squinting in obvious concentration. "That was... a little over a year ago, local time? One rotation of your world around your sun?"

"Yes." Grantaire has to fight not to draw the word out as though he were talking to a child or a very drunk friend. If the blond with the sometimes-glowing hair isn't sure about what years are, it's probably for a very good reason.

"I fear we're going to have a great deal of catching up to do with regards to local politics." Enjolras' right fingers tap against his knee, and Grantaire finds himself watching in fascination as the man taps different parts of his finger—the nail, the side, the front—with each repetition. Enjolras' voice raises slightly in volume, somehow becoming piercing as he turns to look at Courfeyrac, halfway across the circle. "I think it's time we both explained and showed what we're here for."

"Agreed." Courfeyrac straightens, though he stays with one knee propped in front of him, his hands cupped over it, and the other knee tucked underneath him. "As much fun as getting to know you all is—and as important as it is, because I feel both sides have a great deal to teach each other—I think we'd best explain the situation so you understand what happened tonight."

"Monsters out of Hades' nightmares attacked us and burned part of Paris to the ground after murdering random people." Grantaire spreads his hands out. "That part was fairly self-explanatory."

"There's always a reason for unprovoked attacks." Bossuet's hand on his shoulder warns Grantaire to watch his tongue for the near future. "And I suspect _that's_ more what Courfeyrac wanted to explain to us."

"It is." Courfeyrac raises his left hand, fingers poised to give a smart snap, and then hesitates. "I'm going to make it dark in the room and raise a hologram—that's like a three-dimensional movie—hmmm... a picture that will surround us? There we go, that's translating well. Don't be afraid."

Grantaire bites back a reply—they aren't _children_ , to be afraid of the dark or pictures—when Courfeyrac's fingers snap together and it suddenly becomes _very_ dark in the room. Before he can panic, points of bright white light snap into being, most of them above him, in the center of the circle.

"This is the universe." Courfeyrac raises his left hand again, spreading his thumb and index finger further apart, and the stars—because that's what they _are_ , stars floating mere centimeters from his face—contract down. "Or, at least, a summary of part of the universe. Combeferre says that your people are just getting to the exciting part of astronomy, and I'm sorry to ruin some of the surprises for you, but every star is a sun, similar to your sun, and many of these suns have planets, and many of those planets have life, of one form or another."

Grantaire stares in the direction of Courfeyrac's voice, just able to make out the shapes of all the people in the shimmering light of the universe's stars.

"Much of that life has a similar basis." Joly's voice comes from between Bossuet and Musichetta, a light, pleasant tenor that sounds both awed and pleased. "As interplanetary exploration has continued and archaeology has improved, it's become very apparent that a great deal of the life in this universe was seeded by a race that we've been calling the Eldest."

"Evidence of the Eldest varies from planet to planet." Courfeyrac picks the thread of the conversation back up, raising his left hand again and this time shrinking the distance between his thumb and index fingers. The star-field zooms in, showing just a small section of space. "But there is a tale, scattered across many worlds, of a weapon that the ancients had. A weapon so powerful it could destroy any enemy—a weapon that could turn the tide in the war that's slowly enveloping all civilized space."

"A war that your world has now found itself embroiled in." Enjolras' voice is softer than Courfeyrac's but still has that carrying, magnetic quality to it. Raising one hand, he touches a star, and flashes of red appear scattered throughout the sky. "These are planets that have fallen to the Hungry Empire."

Joly's voice again, grim. "To simplify our place in this conflict, here are our home planets."

Four of the red planets flare green.

"You're resistance fighters." Combeferre hovers in what must be a very uncomfortable half-crouch, Courfeyrac's hand on his jacket keeping him from rising further. His right hand pokes gingerly at the green stars, passing through the points of light without disrupting anything in the display. "A _planet-spanning_ resistance for a _universal_ threat?"

"Not quite universal." Courfeyrac tugs twice on Combeferre's jacket, dragging the other man back to a sitting position. Raising both hands, he touches his middle fingers to his thumbs.

The stars flare into a rainbow of colors, and Grantaire blinks, startled. After a few seconds he is able to sort out colors—white still, a base color for the stars; the red sprawl of the enemy; a chaotic cluster of green lights, spread here and there amidst the red, ringing the red; purple lights, a dull throb clustered near the center of the empire's power; and yellow lights, also mainly at the edge of the empire, though some are scattered to the edges of the map.

The map that is _floating above his head,_ projected into empty space, and Grantaire flicks his gaze around the circle at their hosts.

Enjolras stands, but apparently this is allowed, because Courfeyrac doesn't move to stop him or motion for Grantaire to grab him. His voice, when he speaks, is low, his words clipped and easy to understand. "White is for stars—as you can see, there are many stars that don't have planets supporting life, or at least not life as we recognize it."

"There were exploration teams, once, looking for other types of life." Joly's voice is wistful, his expression despondent as he stares up at the stars.

The stars must be glowing more brightly, Grantaire realizes, because he can make out everyone's features easily.

"Red is the Empire; green is the resistance, as you guessed." Enjolras offers the tiniest smile to Combeferre, and Grantaire has to catch his breath. How can the man's face be so damn expressive, every little twitch of his muscles saying something? Especially since he is apparently not even human—and may, in fact, have been designed?

Sneaking a glance at Feuilly, Grantaire uses that thought to steady himself. Artists designed perfect people all the time. Clearly one of their new allies—probably the one with the cushion problem—is a decent artist.

"—places where the resistance has, so far as we know, been eliminated." Enjolras' hand briefly rises to cup one of the purple stars. "Yellow are those who refuse to take sides."

"Cowards." Courfeyrac spits out the accusation. "As if playing nicely with the empire has helped save anyone else's independence."

"Recently the resistance has been dealt several hard blows. We're on the cusp of catastrophic failure—on the verge of losing so badly it will be years if not decades before we can re-establish a viable counterstrike." Enjolras paces forward, a cat stalking his prey, until he comes to a white star. Raising his left hand, he decreases the space between thumb and middle finger, and the stars seem to explode outward in a multicolored storm. When the storm subsides, a single yellow star the size of Grantaire's head with a circle of small rocks surrounding it fills the room. "The resistance hasn't gone quietly, though. The empire is frightened by the cost it has paid, and is looking for insurance."

Feuilly is staring at Enjolras, his arms wrapped around his chest. "Looking for the weapon you talked about."

Enjolras inclines his head. Striding to one of the tiny balls—this one blue and green—Enjolras cups it between his hands. "Earth. Your world. This is where the scholars have decided the weapon is most likely to be. The Empire has dispatched multiple strike teams to search for it; the resistance has countered with our own teams. The four of us are a splinter group off a larger team that landed in Nippon—we've been following the ones who came to your city for the last week."

"We need your help." Courfeyrac stands, moving to Enjolras' side. One of his hands also reaches out, mirroring Enjolras' in cradling the blue world. "We don't have enough fighters to take on the group that's here. But we do have weapons, and if you'll agree to help us, to fight with us, we'll train you in how to use them."

"It's remarkably easy to learn how to use them." Jehan stands, too, joining his friends in the center of the room, amidst the now-static planets. "My people had no guns or blades—our mineral deposits were buried too deeply for us to reach them, though they were rich enough to attract Imperial attention anyway. With some training, I have become quite proficient in the use of these weapons."

"Very proficient." Joly stands, as well, disentangling himself from the comforting hand Musichetta had placed on his shoulder at some point. "We don't wish to pressure you to join us, though. Do so of your free will, if you wish; if you don't, you can still provide invaluable help as purveyors of information on your world and country."

"Think before deciding how to act." Enjolras' hands slowly fall, releasing the blue planet from his embrace, and it begins to trundle in a slow circle around the glowing yellow star. "The fires are out. From previous engagements, the enemy will likely spend the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours either bringing the local government over to their side or deciding how to eliminate it."

Bahorel gives a snort of nervous laughter. "We could only hope they decide to eliminate it."

Courfeyrac turns to look at him with eyes that are as flat and devoid of emotion as his voice when he speaks. "No. No, you don't."

Grantaire finds a shiver running down the length of his body. Though he has known these people for perhaps an hour, at most, he knows them well enough to recognize that anything causing Courfeyrac to adopt that tone is well worth fearing.

"Enjolras..." Combeferre's voice is contemplative, his eyes squinting up at the swirling stars and planets with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. "When you showed us where the four of you came from... one of those stars wasn't green anymore when you showed the larger resistance. If I had my coordinates right, it wasn't _there_ anymore."

Enjolras' eyes study the blue planet spinning slowly around the yellow star. His hair begins to glow, a faint, pale imitation of the burning sun. "The resistance has lost a great deal lately. It is an experience we would like to spare others."

Courfeyrac raises his hand, snapping his fingers three times in rapid succession. The floating pictures disappear, and the light level rises slowly in the room. "Now, I'm sure you all have questions. Please, ask whatever you want."

"Then we will leave you to discuss your options, either here or at your homes." Jehan turns in a slow circle, studying each of them in turn. "Remember, always, that we ask for volunteers only. If you cannot do this, do not force yourself to take up arms. There are other ways you can help."

"But you will need to make a decision soon." Joly gives an apologetic grimace as he moves back to his spot between Bossuet and Musichetta. "We have a small amount of time to plan, but not much."

"Will twelve hours suffice for you to reach a decision?" Enjolras watches Combeferre as he asks the question, though he turns his head to left and right to study everyone else's response.

Combeferre nods, slowly. "If twelve hours is what we have, we will make use of it."

Enjolras inclines his head. "Then ask any question of import; we will answer truthfully as we can. Try to save lesser topics for another time—we will share what we can of our technology and science with you, but not now. In twelve hours, any who wishes to join us shall; all who choose not to will be allowed to choose their own path. Acceptable?"

Grantaire finds himself muttering a soft sound of acquiescence even as his mind struggles to process what he's being asked to do.

Twelve hours.

He has twelve hours to choose whether or not he wishes to fight an enemy capable of destroying worlds.

Burying his head in his hands, he wishes he had something to drink, because he doesn't trust himself to make a decision like this sober.


End file.
